backyard commando

Every now and then, something happens that is pretty embarrassing. It could be as simple as tripping on the escalator and falling face first into a crowd of terrified Japanese tourists (hasn't happened to me). It could be as complex as being indicted as the ringleader of an illegal import/export cartel which connects willing homes in Dubai with rare South American monkey-lizard cross breeds (has yet to happen to me).

Falling somewhere in between was the day my homemade commando suit failed under my body weight, sending me crashing into the clutches of imagined Viet Cong.

I've never known why I liked the military idea growing up. Maybe it was the family ties to the Air Force, or just my love of gadgetry and the knowledge that a soldier was outfitted with a backpack full of nicknacks. Maybe it was just a sense of patriotism that had yet to be shattered by the Bushit of today's Washington. Whatever it was, I loved me some camo, and would run around in the woods of my backyard until the end of summer vacation.

One particular day, I decided that life as a paratrooper was the ticket. At only about 10, I didn't have access to my own private plane, so I was forced to improvise. The accessories of note seemed to be a parachute, a gun, and a field of enemies. I could rummage in the garage and probably make it work.
What I found amid the 8-tracks, cobwebs, and Christmas ornaments was the realization that being a paratrooper would be a cool, but even cooler would be a paratrooper with a unique predicament. I wanted to somehow rig my school book bag with cord that could be tied to the swingset in the backyard, and hang from the arm straps. This would, in my prepubescent mind, replicate a scenario in which I would have already jumped from the plane, but had become entangled in a tree behind enemy lines. With the enemy swarming in, I would be forced to unleash the mighty power of my Super Soaker 2000, AKA M-16, and mow down my attackers. I envisioned a lethal firestorm, delivered as I swiveled about, hanging from my backpack that may or may not have been decorated with Teenage Mutant Ninja Turtles and foil gum wrappers.
I almost had to abandon this plan a few days later while at REI. I told the guy behind the counter of the climbing department that I needed some small diameter cord. When he asked what it was for, I was petrified. I couldn't tell him what I really planned to do, i.e. play pretend commando. I sat in silence until he asked if a cat had gotten hold of my tongue, at which point I snickered, and ran from the store.
Still determined to keep my murderous fantasy in existence, I returned to the garage and eventually found some glorified shoe string. With this, my backpack, and Super Soaker, I headed outside to the swing set.
The loop of cord went around a beam about 8 feet off the ground, and through the hang loop of my back pack. (You know the one; a small nylon loop between the shoulder straps used for hanging the bag on a hook at the back of the class.) My backpack was now hanging from the wooden beam, and standing tip toe on the top of the plastic slide, I slid my arm through the first strap, then the second. For a split second, I was hanging, imagining my parachute in a tree and communists approaching. Just a split second, though, because I was quickly separated from this make believe reality when the straps broke and I came crashing into the grass.
I had dedicated days to a fantasy that was entirely ridiculous. What would I have done if the nylon hadn't broken? Swung around for a few seconds and claimed victory over an invisible enemy? Is that what I'm doing now, climbing around (albeit with a better rigging system) in Rifle and Indian Creek? Now a days, I buy my harnesses, and retire my ropes after they've seen too much enemy fire. It's all still just fun and games.